When the doctor placed two tiny babies on my chest—a boy and a girl—I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of tenderness and sorrow at once. The pain I felt wasn’t caused by childbirth or exhaustion but stemmed from my husband’s absence. He had promised he would be by my side all day, swearing he would come, lend support, and even bring flowers. Yet, the only person who entered the hospital room was a nurse who told me coldly, —
“Your husband didn’t show up.”
Though I fought tears, something inside me snapped.
The three days I spent in the maternity ward stretched endlessly. Every moment, I wished to see him standing in the doorway or to hear his footsteps in the hallway. Despite my calls, he ignored the phone, and when I finally reached him, his brief reply was, —
“I’m busy.”
Busy… while I, his wife, had just given birth to our twins.
Being discharged was another ordeal. Other mothers left hand-in-hand with their partners, surrounded by relatives, balloons, flowers, laughter, and pictures to capture the milestone. Meanwhile, I stood alone by the hospital exit, clutching two bundles tightly, a lump choking my throat.
“Taxi to Maple Street, number eight,” I said, adjusting my son and holding my daughter close.
The driver glanced into the rearview mirror silently. Two tiny heads adorned with delicate pink and blue ribbons stared up at me with innocent eyes—eyes that had yet to comprehend pain or betrayal but trusted completely.
“Is your dad coming to meet you?” he finally inquired.
I turned toward the window, unable to answer. How could I explain that my husband had assaulted me during my eighth month of pregnancy and then abandoned us? That he hadn’t shown up for three days or asked how I or the babies were? That the only bouquet in the ward was given by a neighbor?
My daughter, Masha, wrinkled her tiny nose and began to cry. Her twin brother, Artyom, joined her wails. I gently rocked them, whispering:
“Hush now, my loves… Mommy’s here with you.”
Thus began my new life.
The taxi eased to a stop in front of a familiar entrance. My possessions were sparse: a bag, two bundles, and trembling hands. Struggling, I stepped from the car, holding the children close. The driver offered assistance, but I declined with pride:
“Thank you, I can manage.”
He nodded, staring at me thoughtfully before saying warmly, —
“Take care, miss. Now you have someone worth living for.”
His words cut deep. I had not yet fully grasped that responsibility now rested entirely on me.
Climbing to the fourth floor without an elevator exhausted me almost to collapse. At every landing, the urge to cry nearly overwhelmed me. Still, the babies’ soft breathing and occasional whimpers gave me strength. I knew giving up was not an option.
Entering the apartment, the scent of emptiness greeted me. In three days, my husband had not tidied up. Dirty dishes filled the sink; an ashtray rested on the sill; and empty beer bottles cluttered the table. A shiver ran through me. Mere weeks ago, I dreamed this place would be filled with joy, children’s laughter, and love. Now, it resembled a storm’s aftermath.
I laid Masha and Artyom in their tiny cribs, prepared before the birth as if anticipating this moment. Lying side by side, they seemed to know they belonged together, breathing softly, occasionally twitching. Sitting nearby, I let myself sob quietly for the first time.
“Mommy’s here,” I whispered. “I won’t let anyone take you away, do you hear? Not a soul.”
That night, sleep eluded me. The babies cried alternately, and I hurried between their cribs. Feeding Masha, then Artyom, then Masha again, I felt myself dissolve into the endless care, though exhaustion no longer mattered.
My phone remained silent. No call from my husband came.
The next morning, a knock startled me. Peering through the peephole, I saw Aunt Valya, the neighbor who had gifted me flowers in the hospital. She held a pot in her hands.
“Well, supermom, open up!” she said cheerfully despite concern evident in her eyes.
Grateful, I let her in.
“Made some borscht,” she said gently. “You need to eat, or you’ll fall ill. Raising two is no joke. Where’s your husband?”—her gaze swept the room filled with empty beer cans.
I pressed my lips tight.
“I don’t know.”
She sighed heavily but refrained from asking more.
And so my new existence began: days filled with sleepless nights, crying bouts, diapers, colic, and yet pure, immense happiness.
“Strength I never knew I had blossomed inside me—the very force Aunt Valya and even the taxi driver spoke of: a mother’s power.”
A week passed without any sign of my husband—no calls, no messages. Whenever I reached out, he ignored or coldly said he was busy.
One night, when the babies finally slept and silence filled the apartment, I sat by the window and realized clearly: waiting any longer was pointless.
“I will manage,” I said aloud. “For Masha and Artyom.”
From that moment, despite fatigue and tears, I embraced each sunrise with hope, knowing my children lived and smiled at me.
- Surviving on fragmented sleep and brief meals.
- Enduring five to six nighttime awakenings to care for two infants.
- Transforming into a caregiver machine—feeding, changing diapers, soothing.
Yet the twins’ smiling faces melted away weariness and replenished my resolve.
My husband remained absent, as if erasing us from his life. Occasionally, he sent brief messages: “No money,” offering no further support.
I stared at my phone, longing for even a hint of concern. “At least care,” I thought. “They are your children. Yours!”
But the longer I waited, the more apparent it became that waiting was futile.
Money dwindled swiftly. The tiny sum left from my maternity benefits melted like spring snow. Diapers, formula, medicines, clothes—all came with hefty price tags.
Once, while counting change at a pharmacy to purchase colic medication, I felt the eyes of impatient patrons burning into me. Embarrassed, I discovered I was short by twenty rubles. Ready to abandon the purchase, a woman behind me passed the missing coins, saying gently:
“Take this, mom. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
Tears streamed down my face in the pharmacy aisle.
Returning home carrying a heavy bag but a lighter heart, I realized: this world isn’t as harsh if kind souls like hers exist.
At last, on the fourth week, he showed up. Surprised, I recognized his key turning in the lock.
He entered drunk, flung his jacket onto a chair, neglecting the babies’ cribs completely.
“So, supermom, handling it all?” he sneered.
Cradling crying Masha, I felt my chest tighten painfully.
“Where were you?” I whispered. “You didn’t even show up for the discharge, didn’t come to see your children.”
He waved dismissively,
“Leave me alone. I have enough to worry about.”
“They are your children!”
My voice broke with anguish.
“Whose children? Ha!” he chuckled bitterly. “They don’t look like anyone from my family.”
His callous words wounded me more deeply than any blow. Sitting down, holding Masha, I finally said:
“Leave. If you think that way, just leave.”
He slammed the door behind him, leaving behind the stench of cheap tobacco and a profound sadness.
That night, by the cribs where Masha and Artyom slept peacefully together, I stroked their tiny hands and resolved:
“I won’t let him destroy our lives. I will be both mother and father. It will be hard, but we will prevail.”
From that point, I refused to wait for mercy. I drew up plans to economize, earn a bit from home, apply for benefits, and gather necessary documents.
Aunt Valya was a steadfast support—helping me navigate offices, advising on free formula programs, sometimes babysitting while I ran errands.
For the first time in ages, I felt supported. Not by my husband or distant family—my mother lived far away—but by someone near.
One day, again calling a taxi for a pediatric appointment, I discovered the driver who had taken us home from the hospital was behind the wheel.
He recognized me immediately:
“Hello! How are the little ones?”
I smiled genuinely for the first time in days:
“Growing fast. Off to the doctor.”
He helped carry the bag, opened the building door, and surprised me by saying:
“If you need anything — groceries, help — just call. I live nearby.”
Though caught off guard, I thanked him.
Suddenly, this man became much more than just a driver.
“From weary survival to rediscovery of strength—life began to fill again with small joys and unexpected friendships.”
Weeks rolled on. Nights involved rocking twins, cooking porridge, washing endless diapers. Sometimes I felt utterly spent, but seeing Masha and Artyom’s smiles reignited my energy.
I never saw my husband again. His rare calls only brought insults. I stopped answering and blocked his number.
From then on, my entire existence revolved around my children.
I noticed a transformation within myself. No longer a broken, abandoned woman, I was becoming a mother: strong, courageous, and confident.
I learned to appreciate tiny milestones: first coos, meaningful glances, and rolling over.
I understood: this was just the beginning.
Returning Home with Two Hearts
Spring arrived with birdsong and melting snow. I felt renewal blooming alongside the season.
Masha smiled broadly, while Artyom amusingly waved his arms reaching for a hanging toy. Capturing their gaze, I reminded myself: this was what made life worthwhile.
The same taxi driver, Andrey, became a regular presence. Initially, just driving us to appointments, he then brought groceries—milk, bread, vegetables.
- He insisted I accept help, emphasizing it was not pity, but kindness.
- Despite my initial refusals, I eventually welcomed his support.
- His companionship grew into vital warmth during tough times.
One evening, after the children slept, Andrey knocked at the door unexpectedly.
Apologizing for the hour, he said he thought I might need assistance.
We talked long about life. I shared how I met my husband, our initial love, and how he later turned cruel and aggressive.
“He once hit me,” I confided softly. “Now he doesn’t even consider the babies his own.”
Andrey listened silently, then remarked thoughtfully:
“Sometimes men are fathers by blood but fail to be so in heart. Others aren’t there at birth but become fathers through love.”
Tears came, not of pain, but relief.
Gradually, I began earning from home — editing texts, translating documents. Though income was modest, independence felt empowering.
Andrey often cared for the children while I worked. His ability to coax laughter united the twins in joy.
Aunt Valya teased:
“Look at supermom, happiness seems close by.”
I blushed, denying it, yet inside bloomed affection I was hesitant to admit: being with Andrey felt easy.
Then, just as I adjusted to this new life, my husband returned. Late at night, he knocked. My heart froze.
“So, will you let me in?” he challenged.
I partially closed the door and asked:
“Why have you come?”
“I thought maybe we could try again. After all, we have kids.”
Anger surged.
“Kids? You needed our children? Where were you all these months? Nights when I couldn’t sleep, when money ran out, when I collapsed?”
He shrugged.
“I was wrong. I want to make things right.”
At this moment, Andrey entered with groceries.
Calmly, he said:
“She is no longer alone.”
The husband erupted:
“So that’s it? You already found someone else?”
Stepping forward, I declared firmly:
“No. I found myself and my children. We don’t need you anymore.”
I closed the door on him.
Time passed. Masha and Artyom grew—taking their first steps and words. Alongside them, my faith in life blossomed.
Andrey became their true father figure—teaching Artyom to throw a ball, carrying Masha on his shoulders, reading them bedtime stories.
To me, he was the person who rekindled my belief in love.
We took things slowly, simply being together at first. One day, he took my hand and said:
“I don’t ask for an immediate answer, but know this: I love you and your children as no one else ever has.”
Looking into his eyes, my heart responded even before my lips could speak: “I love you too.”
Two years later, on a May day when we returned from the hospital with the twins, I stood again by those very doors, but with new feelings.
Andrey awaited us with a huge bouquet of daisies — my favorite flowers. The children laughed as they ran around us.
“Come on, Mom,” he said, embracing me, “let’s go home.”
In that moment, I knew we truly had a home—one built on love, respect, and happiness.
I glanced at Masha and Artyom. Their trusting eyes still gleamed with light. And I knew I had kept my promise.
I would never give them away.
Conclusion: This journey reflects the relentless courage of a mother who, despite abandonment and hardship, embraced her role with unwavering love. Through trials and tears, she discovered profound strength and found newfound hope in unexpected support. Her story is a testament to resilience, the transformative power of compassionate connections, and the enduring bond between a parent and child.